


slow and sweet like sugar in water

by pyotr



Series: the terror kink meme fills [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (kind of), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, The Terror Kink Meme, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyotr/pseuds/pyotr
Summary: (repost, de-anon)“don’t pity me,” is what john cuts him off with, and he feels hollow with every word that falls from harry’s tongue. he curls his hands into fists, if only to hide the tremors. “don’t say things like that to me. if i’ve come across as the sort of man to ask for… for affection as repayment, then i’ve done you wrong, mister peglar. but the last thing i want is your pity.”





	slow and sweet like sugar in water

**Author's Note:**

> Bridgens/Peglar, self-conscious about age difference
> 
> Bridgens is self-conscious about their age difference. This makes him think he's imagining there’s more than just friendship between them, and he curses himself for being an old fool who has fallen in love with a young man who would never think of him that way. But of course Peglar is totally in love with him too and is extremely attracted to him.

john bridgens knew where he stood in the world.

he wasn’t an old man, not really, but he wasn’t young, either; there were lines around his eyes and mouth, and his hair was more grey now than anything else. his joints ached when it got cold out, and he didn’t move as fast or as easy as he used to. he would never amount to anything more than a servant, having spent so much of his life as a ship’s steward, and he accepted that. he had only ever had himself to worry about.

but harry, oh, harry had the world before him. he was young yet, and beautiful, his body still working as it should. he was an officer, too, and well-liked, and full of so much potential that it was blinding. and he was kind, kinder than anything, kind enough to humor john and his head full of books, but that was just who henry was, and john reminded himself not to look too deeply into it.

thinking about it, about things like that, was dangerous.

men like john were always in danger, in some way or another. they were confined to dark corners and empty alleys and seedy molly houses, always looking over their shoulder, always hiding. john hated it, living like this; he was a romantic at heart, and this sort of life was unsatisfying to him.

but harry wasn’t like that. harry was too good to be like that.

“what’s this word right here?” harry asks, and his finger is pressed to the page, a note of frustration in his voice. john sympathized, but never pitied him- harry wouldn’t have taken well to pity- and rather admired his persistence.

“rutilant,” john says, “from the latin  _rutilare._ it means to… glow, red or gold.”

harry hums and squints at the page, and though his finger remains upon the paper the tension has gone from him; instead he drags his fingertips lightly across the ink, almost as if he were caressing the words, a thoughtful look on his face. john swallows thickly and looks away.

“john,” harry says, soft, “why do you do this?”

“do what?”

harry gestures between them vaguely, a furrow between his brows. “this,” he says again. “helping me read. there’s nothing for you to gain, not really.”

“the pleasure of your company.” the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he just barely keeps himself from wincing. “must i gain anything?”

“no one does anything for free.” harry is looking right at him now, studying his face, and john wants suddenly to look away, to shake him off. he’s afraid, almost, of what harry might see in him.

he can’t though, can’t look away, because there is something in harry’s expression that is almost like a challenge, a stubborn set to his jaw that john recognizes from when they had first begun reading together, when harry would struggle through words and reject all help. a puzzle, then, something to figure out, to learn.

“i do,” john says, and clears his throat. “i don’t want anything from you, henry.”

“harry,” he corrects. “you do so much for me, john. i’m sure there’s something i can give you in return.”

there was, of course there was, but it was not something that john would ever ask for as payment, even had harry shared his peculiar passions. he doesn’t have the words to explain this, though, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak; he looks back to his book and shakes his head in a sharp, silent  _no._

“i’m sorry.” harry scoots his chair closer and john tenses himself, unsure if he would lean into him or sway away. “that was unkind of me. i just thought… well. i’m sorry.”

“no harm was intended,” john says, and he works hard to sound unaffected, to banish the quaver in his voice and strange feeling in his chest. how ridiculous, a man as old as he getting flutters like a little girl.

but harry doesn’t move way; he hovers there instead, close, and john doesn’t look up. he counts heartbeats, breaths. and then harry covers one of john’s hands with his own, his palm warm and rough, and thinks for a moment.

“john,” harry starts, slow, “may i ask one more favor from you?”

he does look up, then, and harry is watching him intently, closely, and john doesn’t move away. “of course.”

“may i kiss you?”

john’s breath catches; he swears that his heart stutters a beat. he  _wanted_ this, he did, but- he didn’t want it if harry felt obliged. he wanted harry to want him, as unrealistic as that was, and it only made him ache all the more. this was unfair, nearly cruel; john had never thought himself a particularly strong man.

“don’t,” he says, and his voice is cracked.

there is a moment where they hang there, suspended in silence, and then something changes in harry’s expression. he looks away quick, though john can see the way that the tips of his ears pinken, and he scoots his chair back to where it was meant to be. he closes his book, gathers his things, starts to say, “i’m sorry, john, that- i didn’t mean to presume, i just- you’ve been so  _kind_ to me…”

“don’t pity me,” is what john cuts him off with, and he feels hollow with every word that falls from harry’s tongue. he curls his hands into fists, if only to hide the tremors. “don’t say things like that to me. if i’ve come across as the sort of man to ask for… for affection as repayment, then i’ve done you wrong, mister peglar. but the last thing i want is your pity.”

john had known how pathetic he was, mooning after a young man over a decade younger than himself, but he had thought that he’d at least been able to hide it. if he was going to suffer he’d prefer to do so discreetly, if only to spare himself humiliation, not to mention persecution. maybe he might have been attractive as a younger man, but now he was old, and not a thing to be coveted, not a thing to be wanted.

harry is on his feet, by this point, his face wearing a strange look, and john wants desperately to know what he’s thinking, feeling. he liked to think that he was a man able to easily intuit the thoughts of others- this was why he made such a good steward, see, able to able to attend the captain’s needs before an order was ever issued- but harry, for all of his brightness and openness, had always been harder to read.

“it’s not pity,” harry says, and there is something queer in his voice, almost as if he were offended. “it’s never been pity. this is something i want to do because i  _want_  to, because i… well. i like you quite a bit, john, and i suppose i’d hoped you might like me, as well.”

there is no hint of insincerity in his face, only disappointment, and john has to work to fight down the sudden flare of hope that blooms between his ribs.

“i am getting old.” the words feel hoarse in his mouth, raw and honest and painful to say. “i am getting old, and you’ve the world spread out before you, harry. don’t waste your time on me.”

harry steps closer and john, still seated, lifts his chin to look up to him and meet his eyes. he needed harry to know this, to understand that john was not something he should be wanting, because john had done awful, ugly things that he wasn’t proud of.

(and the guilt, always the guilt, at the thought of harry getting tangled up with him and having those ugly things rub off, that history of dirty alleys and strangers’ faces...)

“i know you,” harry says, earnest enough that it hurts. “i enjoy you as you are, mister bridgens, and if you were any other way you wouldn’t be the man i know.”

and then he leans in and kisses him, and john doesn’t have the will to tell him no, because john bridgens was a weak man.

harry’s hands frame his face, warm, bringing him close, and john curls his fingers around one of his wrists. the angle is awkward and john is sure that he will have a crick in his neck before long but harry’s kisses are eager, sheer intensity making up for the unsure way he scrapes his teeth lightly over john’s bottom lip or how they bump noses when john rests a hand on his hip. he makes a small noise when john pulls him in closer.

“up, up,” he says, and john lets himself be hauled out of his chair only find himself pressed between harry and the table. he drags his fingertips across harry’s cheek just because he can, cups his jaw when the younger man closes his eyes and leans into it. there are faint, tiny freckles across the bridge of harry’s nose, and john marvels at them.

“don’t expect too much,” john says in soft undertone, his thumb stroking lightly over harry’s cheek, “i would sorely hate to disappoint.”

“never,” replies harry, and this time it is john that kisses him, slow and deep, and he drinks in the way that harry moans and clings at his shirt, tangles his hands in his hair. harry was just a hair shorter, and he presses himself against john, nudging a knee between his legs that makes john breathe in sharp. he curls his hand against harry’s hip, runs the other flat up and down his back.

“harry.” it’s little more than a whisper, a breath between them.

“john.” a kiss is pressed to his neck, just below his ear, and he shivers. “can i touch you?”

john swallows thick and nods, says, “yes.”

he leans back and braces his hands against the table, holding his breath as harry drags a hand down his chest and stomach, but hesitates at the waist, glancing up to meet john’s eyes. “i’ve never done this with a man before.”

something in john’s chest tightens. “you don’t have to-“

“i  _want_ to,” harry says, cutting him off. “show me. please.”

the request sends a shot of heat straight down john’s spine and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard; this must have been a dream, truly, for how else would harry be so amicable to all this, with little caution or question? still, he takes harry’s hand and- not before harry kisses his knuckles, which makes john smile- guides him down to cup him through his trousers.

john allows himself a moment, when henry flexes his fingers, to let his eyes slip closed and give a soft, shuddering sigh. It had been so long since he’d been touched by anyone other than himself; he’d been serving aboard the  _clio_  these past few years with little inclination towards any of the crewmen, and though he’d been on solid land since october much of that time had been spent bent over books with harry.

and harry, well. his eyes were on john’s face, intent, and john pulls him back in by his collar for another kiss. harry hums, a pleased little noise, and presses with the heel of his hand; john can’t seem to help the way that his hips twitch up against his palm when he rubs with his palm. he can feel the way that harry smiles against his mouth, how he nips lightly at his bottom lip, and harry works him with his hand until john is lightheaded and gasping. his fingers are still looped loosely around harry’s wrist.

“bed?” harry asks, and john nods, his eyes closed. the table wasn’t the best support, the edge digging into his tailbone and leaving his back with the beginnings of an ache. still, though, he winds an arm around harry’s waist and pulls him close to kiss him once more.

“bed,” he agrees, “if you’re amenable.”

the room that john rents is modest, a bed and a cupboard beside it, a small table and a washstand. they still manage to trip over each other, though, in the few steps between the bed and the table, unwilling to let go of each other, and harry laughs in a way that makes john feel warm. the mattress bounces only a little as they tumble back on it; as soon as he is on his back harry is upon him, kissing him and pressing a thigh between his legs, grinding down. john can feel harry against his hip, just as aroused.

“wait,” john rasps as harry is biting a kiss into his throat, a scrape of teeth that makes his breath catch. “harry, love, wait.”

“what?” harry sounds breathless, and when he looks up his eyes are wide and dark. john lays his hand along the side of his face and harry turns to nuzzle into it, kisses his palm.

“i need to know,” john says, and though talking really is the last thing he wants to do right now, but this is  _important._ “i need to know what you want from me.”

harry gives him another kiss, this time to the pad of his thumb. when he speaks, his lips brush skin, his breath warm and moist. “what do you mean?”

john pushes himself up on his elbows, biting back a groan as he does so- he was not so young anymore, after all, and the muscles in his back pulled in protest- and gestures vaguely between them. “this,” he says, and for all of his learnedness he cannot find the correct words. “from me, afterwards.”

understanding dawns across harry’s face, and john thinks that was one of the reasons he cared about the man so much: the fact that, though he may not have been able to read well or recite poems from memory, he had a much more important type of intelligence. harry could read a room like no other, john had found, and find just the thing to say in nearly every situation.

“well,” harry says, and he traces the line of john’s cheekbone with the barest brush of his knuckles, “i’m quite fond of you, mister bridgens, and i rather hope you feel the same. if that’s what all this entails, at least.”

harry is anxious in saying so, john can tell; he has all of his bravado but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes settle anywhere but john’s face. “and if not?”

“then i’ve not said a word at all, and this never happened.”

john laughs at that a little, low and soft, and he drinks in the crooked smile on harry’s face, turns just slightly to brush his lips across the soft skin of harry’s wrist and hear the tiny wounded noise he makes. “i suppose i’m rather fond of you as well, mister peglar. i’m glad to be so.”

he did not say  _love_. he didn’t know how; he never had.

there is no verbal response, no quip or laughter, but the relief is there in the press of harry’s mouth against his own, harry’s hands in his hair. he lets himself be pushed flat against the mattress, though when harry’s fingers begin picking at the buttons on his shirt, john bats him away and undoes them himself.

he had imagined, of course, what it would be like to feel harry’s hands on his skin. they are hot but not damp, and he can feel the path that they take as harry touches his throat, his collarbone, pushes his open shirt over his shoulders. it’s all very tender, exploratory, and john breathes in a shuddering breath when harry draws his hands down his chest, nails scraping lightly over skin.

“rather more hair than i’m used to,” harry remarks, and he’s sitting up and looking john over. there’s something in his eyes, something focused and considering that makes john want to pull his shirt back up.

he’s aware of how he must look, broad-chested and soft ‘round his middle, not trim like a younger man and a far cry from the slim ladies that harry must have typically favored. he glances away- can’t make himself look at harry’s face, for fear of the disappointment he’d find there.

“you’d best acclimate quickly, then,” he manages to say. “it’s not like to change soon.”

there’s a pause, a beat of silence, before harry shifts to sit beside him on the bed instead of over him. john’s eyes flick towards him and then away, quick as hummingbird wings; something tight and ugly clenched in his chest.

“john,” harry says, and his voice is quiet, “do you want this?”

 _more than anything,_ john wants to say, but the words stick at the back of his throat.  _more than i’ve ever wanted anything._

“do you?” he asks instead.

“i do.” harry’s hand in on his cheek, gentle, turning his head to meet his gaze. Harry’s expression is open and honest, and warm in a way that john both craved and doubted. “i have, for a while. you’re very special to me.”

john had never been in love before. he’d had lovers, on and off, brief flings and infatuations that had been fun at the time, but nothing ever permanent and nothing resembling the way he felt for harry. and he was afraid of that, in a way, how vulnerable that made him and how much he wanted it. wanted  _harry,_ in all the ways he’d be allowed.

this was dangerous, he knew, in more ways than one.

“i am nearly fifty years old, harry,” john says, “and unlike any soft lady you may’ve had in the past, and i am afraid.”

harry takes a breath, holds it, lets it out in a little sigh; he tucks a lock of hair behind john’s ear, the gesture infinitely tender. “i want you, john,” he says, and though he’d said it before this time it sounds like a confession, small and a little sad. “you’re kind to me, and patient, and you  _care;_ and, god forgive me, john, but i think that you may just be the most beautiful thing in the world.”

john feels as if they are hung there for a moment, suspended in space, before he says, “i would very much like you to kiss me, right now.”

and harry grins, loosening, and tugs gently on the hair he’d just brushed from john’s face. “just kiss?”

“rather more, i think,” john admits, “but it’s a start.”

it’s good, and easier this time, john’s hand spread over the nape of harry’s neck, nipping at his lip. harry tugs at his shirt, says “off,” against his mouth, and john slips his shirt the rest of the way down his arms as harry scrambles out of his own.

“you’ve a tattoo,” harry blurts, surprised; he runs his thumb over the inked design etched into the inside of john’s left forearm, presses a kiss to it.

“and more,” john answers, watches as something shifts in harry’s face, a hungry sort of gleam in his eye.

there’s less talking, after that, and though sometimes things are awkward- their teeth knock together when harry moves too eagerly, and john bites down too hard on harry’s neck when the younger man slips a hand down his trousers- but john is warm, and breathless, and near dizzy with it all.

“can i,” harry starts, and then cuts himself off with a hiss when john drags his thumb over the head of his cock. “inside?”

the request is vague but shoots a wave of sheer  _want_ through john, tingling from head to toe. he nods, nose pressed to harry’s throat, feels his pulse. “top drawer,” he rasps out, “there’s a bottle-“

while harry rummages in the drawer john kicks out of his trousers, tossing them carelessly to the floor (he will scold himself for it later, cursing wrinkles) and strokes himself briefly, sighing a little when harry holds the small glass vial aloft.

“why do you have this?” harry asks when john takes it from him and uncorks it.

“precaution,” he says, slightly dry. “give me your hand.”

harry does so, watching with wide, dark eyes as john spreads the oil over his fingers until they are slippery. he corks the bottle and sets it aside, takes harry by the wrist.

“is this  _olive oil?”_ harry says. john rolls his eyes.

“it’s slick,” is the explanation, and then, “slow, now.”

he guides harry’s hand, carefully presses harry’s index finger inside. john measures his breaths; he’d always had his own hands, of course, but it had been a fair bit of time since he’d done this, and had never felt particularly inclined in the first place _._ he releases harry’s wrist and takes himself in hand, strokes slow in time with- first one, then two- harry’s fingers moving in and out of him.

“faster.” the word feels like it slips through his teeth, a sigh, and john lets his eyes flutter shut. he tries not to move overmuch, tries not to break harry’s focus, but even he cannot stop the way he twitches up into his fist, a muscle in his thigh tensing when harry is knuckles-deep. “bend… bend your fingers, just slightly.”

harry does so, and twists his wrist just slightly, and john can’t quite bite back the groan that works its way up his throat, or stop the way that he jerks abruptly when harry crooks his fingers just right. harry pauses, just for a moment and john cracks an eye open to peer at him.

“alright?” harry asks. it’s barely above a whisper; his expression is open and almost awed, and john wants to hoard that look away for himself.

“more than,” john answers, just as quiet, and swears that he can hear his own heartbeat.

harry doesn’t respond right away, doesn’t move even though john desperately wants him to. he licks his lips, seems to roll some thought around in his head. “can i… that is, are you… ready? i’m not sure how to say it.”

perhaps it was strange, the stillness, the unsureness, but john smiles and pulls harry in for a kiss, short and lingering. he reaches for harry’s wrist again and it feels strange, to be empty now, but he reaches for the oil again and smooths some over his palms.

harry makes a soft, wounded sort of noise when john curls his fingers around his cock, sliding and slipping smooth with the oil in his hand. john swallows the sound with a kiss, nearly bruising; harry was beautiful like this, bare and gasping, flushed and watching him with dark eyes and a slightly open mouth.

he wants to say as much, but he doesn’t.

“good?” his voice feels like gravel in his mouth, low and rumbling. harry nods, a bit too quick, and john gives him one last, brief kiss before moving to tuck a pillow beneath his hips and laying back.

harry moves so he is between john’s legs and runs his hands over john’s thighs seemingly just for the pleasure of it, eliciting a shiver. he places one hand solidly on john’s hip and lines himself up with the other and, with a brief glance and a nod, slowly presses forward.

john sucks in a dragging, sharp breath and clutches at the quilted blanket with one hand, grabbing for harry’s arm with the other. there is pain, a sharp sting that always comes with stretching muscle, and while it’s not pleasant he had endured worse. harry seems to notice his discomfort, though, because he wraps his fingers around john’s cock and strokes him slow.

“are you alright?” harry sounds almost winded, his voice cracking in the middle.

“fine,” john sighs, and there is something fond and twisting in his chest. he hooks his heel behind harry’s back and pulls him forward. “don’t  _stop._ ”

harry huffs out a breath and rolls his hips, almost cautious, but it’s enough to make john arch against him and curl his toes, his grip on harry’s forearm tightening. it takes a few awkward moments, to find a rhythm that works for the both of them, though this is a part that harry seems more confident in. he presses his face against john’s neck and john curls his fingers in harry’s short hair and breathes in deep.

it’s tender, the way that they rock together, slow and intimate and something that john had hoped for but never been quite able to have. he can feel the kisses that harry drops over his throat, his collarbones, murmuring all the while; his lips brush the words against john’s skin, praises and pleas and soft, quiet gasps when john pushes back to meet his hips with his own. it’s wonderful, all of it, and so very  _harry._

(john doesn’t know if he says anything, if any such sweet nonsense crowded his tongue, focused on harry as he was: the feel of him inside and the warm weight of his body, the way his hair slipped through john’s fingers like satin. he doesn’t know if he wishes he had.)

“john,” harry says, his breath hitching, and john can feel the tremble that runs through him, the way he tenses. “i… please, can i…”

“yes,” john whispers. he tightens his thighs around harry’s waist and pulls him up into a kiss, again and again and again. “yes, yes, of course, dear harry-“

and harry goes tense after one, two, three sharp thrusts, one hand curled into the blanket and the other clenched tight on john’s hip, the cry that had been on his lips swallowed back with a bruising kiss. john had almost forgotten how strange it was to be filled like this, the uncomfortable seeping, sticky feeling as harry moves away after a long moment. still though, he nearly whines at the loss until harry’s fingers wrap around his still hard and leaking cock, pulling in rough, uncoordinated strokes until john finished as well, clutching at harry’s wrist and his face turned sideways into the pillow.

they are quiet for a long while after that, barely touching and sweat cooling on their skin, and john is content with that- content that harry hasn’t simply left as soon as it was all over, and perhaps that was a pathetic thing to be thankful for but he was, nonetheless. and then harry kisses him on the cheek and gets up to fetch a wet flannel, and the spell is broken.

“that was,” harry starts, then pauses, as if searching for the words. john is wiping himself down, running the damp cloth over his stomach and the insides of his legs with a grimace. “good.”

“just good?” john comments, to which harry replies with some muttered, uncharitable quip that makes john laugh.

harry takes his hand though, smooths his thumb across john’s knuckles with a thoughtful look. “will this change anything?”

“between us?”

harry nods, small and quiet.

“do you want it to?”

“only if it’s a good change,” harry replies.

john says, “then it’ll be a good change,” and presses a kiss to the center of harry’s palm.


End file.
